


Beginnings

by EmmaZichtenstein



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), Tommy Ratliff (Musician)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:41:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29054559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmaZichtenstein/pseuds/EmmaZichtenstein
Summary: Adam releases long-awaited Velvet, but things don't go quite as planned
Relationships: Adam Lambert/Tommy Ratliff, Tommy Ratliff/Original Male Character
Comments: 5
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's my first fiction in English.

“The second position… From the end,” middle aged man looked up at his ward and looked at his phone again tiredly rubbing his bridge of the nose with fingers, “Do you understand what it means?”

“Utterly,” brown-haired responded in the same tone sitting in the comfortable leather armchair in front of Jack.

“You wanted to take a risk, the result lies in front of you, not counting a lot of plagiarism lawsuits,” music producer of famous label tensely took a glass of whiskey and drained it to the bottom, “And this is not the worst. If situation does not change in the near future, unfortunately we will have to break our contract”.

A terrible silence instantly filled the stylish office behind the panoramic windows of which half of Los Angeles could be seen. The hand of the clock was counting down the next second, echoing in the chest of once successful singer. It was this phrase that he was afraid to hear most of all. This is what he lacked for complete happiness.

It would seem that difficult? Do what you like and don’t care about someone else’s opinion, find an excellent team with their unique style and non-standard approach to business and just plunge into the atmosphere of freedom and buzz, create another hit that not subject to time. But nothing can go so easy from the start.

He’s gotten too caught up in touring with the legendary Queen. Yeah, performing with them is a great honor, especially for a fan, who Adam has been since childhood. Their concerts always sold out, thousands of people sing along with him the famous songs of the great performer. Plus, he received a very pleasant bonus in the form of a strong friendship with the rock musicians, Brian and Roger became a family for him, ready to listen and support at any time, they help him once to overcome the crisis and come back to life. A dream came true and took away all his free time.

Lambert prepared his fourth solo album in the intervals between unlimited tours, which is why he was in development for five whole years, that is unacceptable for modern show business, which rules are extremely simple: release an album every year, it doesn’t matter which, the main thing is that it soared to the top of all kinds of charts, otherwise you’ll be quickly forgotten and thrown out as unnecessary trash – the terrible fate for anyone who decides to oppose the system, but he decided to tale a risk, prove to the ruling elite that music should come from the heart, be sincere and not serve as a banal way of obtaining heaps of money and fame.

Adam did what he had to do.

It’s a pity that the result had the opposite effect.

The first obstacle on the way to success was a long break, half a decade is quite a long time, and people began to forget him, only loyal fans continued stubbornly wait for news from their idol, who returned their lives upside down. But even their patience had certain limits, some came down, staying in “hibernation” until the moment X, fortunately, there were those who in spite to everything followed his every step and warmed up the interest of the rest of the audience, over and over again kindled the fire of passion, reposting their favorite songs and attaching to them many photos from last photoshoots and usual selfies. Seeing their efforts and the old love in their eyes, the man couldn’t hold back a sincere, grateful smile.

The second was the desire to release not a one hundred percent hit that will sound out every dynamic, but something special, even personal, the one that can awaken in people forbidden desires, a spirit of rebellion and nostalgia for the old days. Soul, rock’n’roll, disco, retro – a mixture of genres that made Velvet something special, unlike what he did before.

As he thought.

The scandal that erupted after the release of the fourth album so unexpectedly and at the wrong time seriously frayed the nerves of not only the singer, but also his producer, even the most experienced lawyers just shrugged their hands, offering to compensate the injured party. Lambert missed the moment when his creation, made in a friendly team of professionals, suddenly became a stolen idea of some novice. The melodies, and the style itself, were absolutely identical, the song Superpower, on which the whole team was betting, turned out to the sheer plagiarism, almost word for word. Nobody could explain how it happened. The first lawsuit was worse than all subsequent ones, the amount of compensation exceeded twenty million, but they managed to defend their innocence, at the last moment the lawyers found evidence of Adam’s innocence in the theft of the melody and text, sending counter accusations. This was followed by a whole series of courts with other labels, where the idol of millions was much less fortunate, if at all could be fortunate.

The troubles that fell on the man hit hard not only on his mental state, but also on his wallet, he was forced to change his new and already beloved home, with which his recent relationship with the Spanish model Javi Costa Polo was connected, to a modest one by the standards of Hollywood apartment. The whole campaign against the singer began on social networks, all sort of hashtags demanding an apology or dismissal flooded Twitter and Instagram, because of which Lambert was forced to abandon the Internet altogether so as not to spoil his life even more.

The hope for an early end to all this nightmare has sunk into oblivion after the publication of the next rating of the most successful celebrities, where Adam took the penultimate place out of a hundred. There was simply no point in falling below, he was already at the bottom. Only a couple of acquaintances from the “world of dreams” sided with him, James Corden kept repeating in his own show about the innocence of the American Idol graduate in plagiarism, trying to convince everyone otherwise, but he had to give up then the wave of the hate him with a double by force. The legendary band Queen, without losing faith, supported their new frontman in such a difficult time for him, but their strength was not enough to stop all this absurdity that has been happening since the beginning of April, when Adam released the full version of his album.

And now he is still sitting in the same office and mentally evaluating his chances of getting out of this situation as a winner or, at least, with small losses in the form of a couple of million compensation. In a prolonged silence, the man looked at his producer, who was rummaging through the next papers, only one thing could be said on his face: everything was even worse than it was a couple of minutes ago. A sharp on the door made both involuntarily flinch in surprise. The assumption that it was a secretary, whom Jack had asked to come in a few minutes before, was dispelled at the same second, when a solid brunette with light gray at the temples in a strict gray suit with a blue tie appeared in the opening, he tactfully cleared his throat and, regretfully looking at Adam, he returned his gaze to the side of the producer.

“They asked for thirty million,” hopeless and slight anger were heard in his intonation, the man went to the desk, loudly slamming the door behind him, “I am powerless this time. Their lawyers from somewhere found Adam’s correspondence with certain people, where they allegedly discussed the idea of stealing those damn songs”.

“How?”, the only thing that the singer could squeeze out of himself, in complete bewilderment looking at his colleagues in misfortune, he wearily leaned back in his armchair and ran his hands through his hair, his chest rose and fell, trying to even out his agitated breathing, his nerves had long lost their positions, and the bits that remained in him had just been burned up in intense anger.

How did he deserve all this? By the fact he walked long and hard to his dream? What did he learn from the best musical art? What was the person who openly declared peace among people? Maybe yes. Honestly and kindness in our time, few people need/ Cunning and cold-blooded calculation have ruled this world for more than a decade, gradually luring over to their side ardent opponents of this approach to creativity. There are only a few caring performers left who believe in sincerity and talent, and not in money and connections, but they simply cut off the remaining oxygen, forcing them to do the same. Now his turn has come.

***

“Are you drunk again?” An excessively annoying voice was heard somewhere to the right of the man, he turned to the speaker and looked at him with a complete lack of interest with a glance, “How much can you? The liver is not a rubber!”

“Fuck off. I want – I drink, I want – no, it not your business,” the drunkard muttered under his breath, passing the old man, waving his hand, “today is my last day”.

The hall, smelling through with tobacco smoke, with the lack of fresh repair, and a bunch of old men, who entered a plump man a thick long beard and overgrown hair with cool applause, shouted something about a terrible look. He just grunted in response and indifferently walked to an impromptu scene with a lonely microphone stand, surprisingly, with a mysterious trepidation grabbing the device with his right hand, and spoke into the speaker:

“If you have anything to do with me, then I hasten to disappoint: this is my last performance in this hole, please love and favor”.

Those few visitors to the cellar, proudly called a “bar”, sipping another glass of tasteless cheap beer, stared at the man in a battered baseball cap, forgetting about their arguments and swearing. All ten people, including the bartender, whose body is covered with tattoos by sixty percent, if not more, and the owner of the “hole”, pricked up their ears, preparing to hear the voice that caught everyone who could hear him live.

With a mute nod of that battered guy’s head, the bar worker played one of Queen’s famous tunes.

“Who wants to live forever?” A bitter grin escaped the man’s lips when he sat down on the bar stool, the hall was filled with cheers and applause. These were the few visitors who became here just for his voice.

Ernie, director, and the same time, owner of “Rock’n’Beer” was once again amazed at the ability of an eternally drunk friend to forget about the rest of the world in just a second, completely immersing himself in music, for those short minutes opening the door to his ruined soul, showing the listeners a full spectrum of emotions and experiences, he could reach out to anyone, turn essence inside out, drive him into despair and give unrestrained joy with just one word sung to such an extend perfectly that none of the most famous vocal teachers can find a mistake.

It was like this before, just a year ago, when he came here one evening to have another glass of beer and talk about politics, that time they had a karaoke competition for old rock lovers. Unable to resist, the man walked to the small stage, while the rest of the rather drunk visitors shouted skeptically their opinion about him, they say, fat man didn’t choose correctly a competition, that this is not a competition for burgers eaters. Successfully ignoring those statements, he asked the bartender to play one of Aerosmith’s hits Cryin’. All discontent and ridicule ceased instantly when perfectly sung notes reached their ears, the melodic tenor sunk into the soul of everyone who was sitting in the hall. When the song ended, no one wanted to let him go from the stage, praying for another song, and so on until the morning. Leaving a third-rate bar, the director of the establishment approached him, an old man with the receding hairline, dressed like a seasoned rocker and, introducing himself as old Ernie, offered him a permanent job for a modest fee, of course. The fat man, after a little thought, agreed to pay in cash about once a week, at that moment he just ran out of money and had nothing for pay for renting the cheapest apartment in all of New York.

Having quickly become friends, the current friends often hung out at the bar, sipping whiskey and talking about the hard life. No matter how Ernie tried to make that mysterious singer talk, he was not eager to talk about himself, saying only that fate in just a couple of months lowered him to the bottom, from which he not longer sees a way out. So, in just a year, Ben, as he introduced himself later, went a long binge, from which he last left two months ago, and then for a couple of days. The voice, as well as the vocal cords themselves, became worse and worse, and the performance, which was once perfect, began to crack, the gentle tenor was replaced by a wheeze on high notes. No matter how the old tried to dissuade his friend, remove the next bottle from his hands, he continued to roll down the slope, not listening to anymore, not even himself.

“Wondering song, isn’t it?” The gray-haired man approached a friend, lightly patting him on the shoulder, “hold your hundred bucks”.

“Less and less each time,” the singer responded displeased, counting the thin stack of cash.

“As well as visitors, alas, but your voice is not getting better, and people need someone who came here a year ago. Unfortunately, you are not him”.

“Yes, yes, I understand,” the drunkard opened another bottle of beer and drank a good half of the contents at the time, turning in the direction of the exit, “now you can calmy find to yourself someone better, remember the agreement? I quit, and you forget about my existence. Bye!”

“Hey, Ben,” the owner of the bar called him quietly, “it’s not too late to return to normal life, stop drinking and find something to your liking, make music…”

“Eh, no, no, no,” the man with the red hair turned back to his friend, shaking his head, “I hate music, the drink is much more interesting,” he winked at the old man and disappeared behind the front door.

“Just don’t kill yourself,” Ernie whispered, returning to work.

***

Coming out of the battered bar, the man shivered from the cold and looked up at the black sky, in the depths of which the stars were completely absent, only rare flakes of snow fell down the heavens, gradually filling the sidewalks, he pulled the visitors of his cap over his forehead and, shaking his shoulders, wandered to the side his hated apartment fifteen blocks away, swaying slightly.

Rare passers-by looked at him cautiously, involuntarily stepping back a couple of meters to the side, to which Ben only grinned and sometimes showed his middle finger, spitting on all the rules of decency.

After about half of the way, someone shouted at him, but noticing any response, forcefully turned him to face him:

“Adam? Is it really you?”

“Tommy…”


	2. Chapter 2

"Tommy?" Adam stared at the blonde standing in front of him with a dull look, but even "under the degree" he could recognize his former friend and the guitarist of his band. Surprisingly, he did not change at all in appearance, still looking like a twenty-year-old guy, who in fact recently turned forty.

Tommy Joe still squeezed his shoulders tightly with his hands, peering closely at the former boss, not even trying to hold back a good-natured smile, although his coffee eyes said otherwise, regret and even anxiety for the man splashed in them, which was quite understandable, given the fact that the singer has changed almost beyond recognition, and not for the better.

The red-haired one just stood there, afraid to move, he didn’t want to see anyone from his past, much less expected to see the part because of which his conscience gnawed and made him regret what had happened for many years. Adam still remembered how he had a falling out with him in two thousand and seventeen, the reason for the disagreement was, oddly enough, politics, or rather the then president. He himself, not understanding why, simply stopped their communication and severed all ties with Glamily, who sided with Ratliff.

"Yes." the guitarist stretched a little disappointedly, looking at his former friend from head to toe. "You have a lousy look."

“I didn’t think that the first thing you’ll say at the meeting would be exactly this phrase,” he quipped, abruptly removing Tommy’s hands from his shoulders. “What are you doing here?"

The blond blew off a long fringe from his forehead and straightened his luxurious black coat and suddenly turned serious in his face.

"I participate in a tour with one group ... We are here only for a couple of days," the man reluctantly began the story, mechanically checking the time on his wristwatch.

"I'm glad for you, Tommy Joe, but," the singer turned in the same direction, ignoring the unexpected interlocutor who immediately followed him, "I need to go home, if you don't mind."

"I would not mind walking with you," the friend responded a little boldly, causing even more irritation in the drunkard, "I told that you suddenly disappeared after those events ... We thought that we would not see you again."

“It was necessary, forgive me for not warning the whole of Los Angeles about my plans,” the man snapped roughly, shaking fresh snow from his shoulders.

"No matter how hard it was for you, you shouldn't have to leave, leave people dear to you and cope with difficulties alone, very few people can do it," the blond continued to insist on his own, he overtook the singer and blocked his way, crossing his arms on his chest, "Just look at yourself! Is this what Leila always wanted for you? They are all worried about you and do not find a place for themselves, thinking that you ... Died!"

"That's great, let it stay that way!" He replied too loudly, pushing his former friend to the side to continue the journey, he did not want to say this, the words themselves flew out of his mouth, the man simply could not appear in front of family and friends, look them in the eyes after everything that happened, he was insanely ashamed of my weakness and rashness, which led to even more terrible consequences, "My current life suits me completely: no fame, no fear of doing what you really want! Freedom, and more!"

"And what did she bring you to?" In the meantime, they were already near the desired entrance, stopping near the front door, Lambert tried to find a bunch of keys in his pocket, but naughty fingers could not find them in any way until they simply fell on the white snow with a characteristic ringing.

"Fuck," the redhead wanted to bend down to pick up the ligament, but Tommy stopped him with a hand gesture.

"I will raise them myself, you can barely stand on your feet," the blond quickly took the necessary object and began to twirl it in his hands, "What is the key?

"Long ... Dark gray, it seems," after thinking for a while, the man responded and pointed his finger at the same iron key.

The guitarist easily opened the door and entered the entrance, throwing a friend's hand on his shoulder, trying to help him easily, and, most importantly, quickly overcome the unfortunate steps to the third floor. Being in close proximity to the former boss, Tommy felt in full measure his lack of any physical training and a good shower in the morning. The smell of fumes instantly filled the flights of stairs, which made breathing simply unbearable, but he endured for the sake of former friendship and banal mutual assistance. Finally, they were able to climb to that hated third floor and open the door leading to Adam's modest apartment.

"Have you done repairs here at least once?" The blond grimaced at what he saw, holding his nose with his hand so as not to feel the musty smell of spoiled food and all kinds of alcohol, or rather a heap of rubbish that filled the apartment, which used to be either a half-eaten burger or an empty can of beer.

Adam's house was an unusually dark room, a studio apartment not exceeding twenty square meters in size, with only one window and then curtains with an old curtain with a bunch of holes and stains. All the horizontal surfaces, the coffee table, the floor, the lonely hanging bookshelf and sofa, were littered with debris. Tommy immediately recalled several classic films, where the main character, after losing the meaning of life, turned his house into something similar to the environment in Lambert's apartment, and simply spent the last days of his existence drinking alcohol or drugs, watching second-rate television shows on an old TV.

"No," as nothing had happened, the man replied, plopping down on the sofa and throwing his legs on the same coffee table, from which several packages of fast food instantly fall. "At first I wanted to re-paste the wallpaper, but then I changed my mind, and so everything suits me."

"So everything is not lost yet," the guitarist said to himself in a barely audible whisper, disgustingly sitting down in the chair opposite, hoping that the red-haired would not hear him.

"What you said?" Adam asked, having drunk a few sips from the can that had remained in it since lunch, "I did not hear."

“No, no, nothing,” an old friend quickly abandoned his words, looking at his watch again.

"Are you in a hurry somewhere?" Lambert quirked an eyebrow, hinting at his strange habit of keeping track of time, which he had not noticed before.

"Tomorrow morning we have a performance, I have to get some sleep tonight if I want to play those unfortunate five chords on all ten songs normally."

"Well, I'm not holding you, you can go about your business, I do not mind."

"I do. I will not leave here until you tell everything that happened to you during these two years. We knocked off our feet to look for you, wondered where you were and what you were doing, and in general whether you were alive or not,” the blond firmly said, frowning his eyebrows, his look expressed full determination to find out the answers to his questions.

"Do you want to hear the complete chronology of those events?" Having received the same confident nod, the singer began the unhappy narration, slightly clearing his throat.

He hated those memories when, in just a couple of days, his life turned upside down, eternal luck and successful coincidences ceased to exist, everything that the performer did turned into a complete disaster, it was hard for him to realize that being at the top , he fell from a height of many kilometers, losing not only his life, but himself.

"As you probably already know," a rotund man spoke on exhalation, looking with an empty gaze somewhere under his feet, "After Velvet's release, many plagiarism lawsuits were filed against me and the label, although this simply could not happen," another nod from the blonde, "we were suing several performers at the same time, who supposedly were the first to come up with those damn melodies, we managed to justify some of the accusations, but not all. The total cost of compensation at the beginning of June exceeded seventy million," at this phrase Tommy exhaled noisily, realizing the severity of his friend's position at that time, he could not imagine that everything was as bad as it was described in the media. "Yes, you are not I heard," the singer confirmed his words, opening a new bottle with strange contents, "I sold everything that I had in the hope that the tour would be able to recoup all expenses and return at least some of the money, but it also did not live up to expectations, almost all tickets remained unsold, funds used for advertising and other expenses, just disappeared into thin air. Personal difficulties began at the same time. Social networks were full of all kinds of hashtags, promotions and posts about "plagiarism" and the demand to kick me out of the label. Friends gradually turned their backs on me, apparently they were suck friends, since, as soon as I lost everything, they so easily left me alone to rake that pile of shit."

The blond continued to sit in an armchair and silently observe the musician's behavior, noticing the slightest changes in his face, it was clear that it was incredibly difficult for him to plunge back into those days of a real nightmare, but he needed to learn everything firsthand in order to know how to help the former boss. The guitarist put his hands on his knees, slightly approaching the man.

"Why didn't you ask us for help? We would never leave you," the interlocutor ventured to ask a question, hoping for an honest answer.

"We ceased to be Glamily back in the fifteenth year, everyone went their separate ways until they completely lost touch, and you already know about us," swallowing a lump in his throat, the red-haired man responded and took the same position as Ratliff, "I didn’t want to let my parents know about my problems, I wanted to deal with them myself as an adult, but as you can see," he gestured around the room with an indefinite gesture, grinning, "I could not do it."

"But at any moment you can return, become what you were before all this," the musician continued to insist on his, nervously adjusting his long bangs. "You just have to want!"

“No,” Adam interrupted him menacingly, finishing his bottle of cheap cider, “I like my life, I don’t want to change anything, especially since everything has already been decided."

"Did you make this decision yourself?" Tommy jerked his head up and stared at his friend.

"Yes," he got up from the sofa and staggered to the bathroom, "I think you have to go."

"Okay, I think so too,” the blonde responded defiantly. "Good night."

"Yeah. To you too," Lambert repeated dryly, closing the bathroom door behind him as the front door slammed shut behind Tommy.

***

Ratliff walked briskly out of the doorway and, without turning around, walked to his car, which he rented the previous evening and left two blocks from where he met his missing friend half an hour later.

The way back was surprisingly difficult for him, as if something was trying to keep him in Adam's house for as long as possible. Not giving a damn about the strange feeling of understatement and, strangely, the joy of meeting, the man confidently walked forward, looking around. He was not yet so well versed in this city, so too much attention to detail will not hurt him. After eight minutes of walking, the blond realized that he could not find the keys to the rented car in his coat pocket, he more carefully searched the pockets, first over his coat, then his jeans, and then, mentally slapping his forehead and swearing aloud, he went back to Lambert's house.

The heart rate increased every minute, and the step accelerated, he did not understand why he was in such a hurry to return, because the keys were not such a strong necessity, he still had about half an hour of free time, but he still did not try to slow down, confidently going forward. Having risen to the desired floor, the guitarist quickly knocked on the door, and it, surprisingly, easily opened without the intervention of the landlord.

"Hey, Adam, I forgot your car keys, did you happen to see them?" Shouted the musician, going inside and looking around in search of a friend, but he was in no hurry to answer him, although a minute had already passed.

Suddenly, his foot stepped into something wet, giving in to the silence with a specific squelch, the blonde abruptly lowered his head down, already anticipating an unplanned morning dry cleaning, when his gaze caught on a strange liquid that spread throughout the floor in a narrow corridor that separated the entrance group from the living room, combined with a kitchen.

"What the..?" The guitarist once again looked around the apartment and, mentally surprised by his friend's new ability to make a mess so quickly, tried to turn on the light to understand exactly what he got into with his new black creepers, but alas, the former boss forgot or simply could not pay the bills, because nothing happened after pressing the switch. He pulled his phone from the inside pocket of his stylish coat and turned on the flash, shining a beam of light on the floor next to him.

The moment of confusion over trying to figure out what had been poured all over the linoleum passed as quickly as it had arisen. "Fuck!" Tommy jerked towards the bathroom and pulled the handle, but it did not budge. He locked her. Then the blond went some distance and began to kick into the wooden surface, hoping that it would break off very quickly, which was also rash, his short stature and rather fragile physique made itself felt with a significant lack of strength, but he did not care about it. He had to get inside. After the third attempt, the lock shattered into several pieces, and the door safely hit the adjacent wall, giving him access to the restroom, "Lambert!"

What he saw next defied any description. Though he loved horror movies, murder scenes and rivers of blood, the guitarist was terrified. His former boss, and now an inveterate drunkard and rude brute, lay motionless in the bathroom, water still flowed from the rusty faucet in an abundant stream and long ago poured over the edges, flowing down the walls in crimson streams, the nose immediately gave off the smell of fresh blood, which further inflamed Tommy. He instantly found himself near the bathroom and, spit on his clothes, dipped his hands into the dark liquid to pull his head out of the water. When his mouth and nose could breathe oxygen again, the blond breathed a sigh of relief, now he had to do the most difficult thing – to pull him out.

Collecting all his strength into a fist, the musician sank even more, now up to his shoulders, into the water and grabbed the man's torso with his hands in order to get him out of the bath with one jerk. When his ears caught the sound of a heavy body falling on the tiled floor, the blond opened his eyes and began to urgently examine him.

Both forearms were completely covered in blood, but the chiaroscuro allowed Ratliff to notice a couple of deep cuts from the wrist to the crook of the elbow, his lips were already death-white, and his chest was in an absolute state of rest.

The blond immediately moved two fingers to the carotid artery for a second, hoping to feel for a pulse.

"Please…"


	3. Chapter 3

He's drinking his tenth mug of coffee, wandering aimlessly down the hospital corridor, waiting for the doctor who has been behind the closed doors of the operating room until now.

Tommy Joe once again replayed the recent events in his head: how he returned to the apartment to pick up the car keys, how he found his friend bleeding in the bathroom, how he pulled him out of the water and called an ambulance when he could not find his pulse. All this happened to such an extent quickly that the blond even now with a shuddering heart recalled every second, every moment of those few minutes of despair while waiting for the doctors, praying to all the gods he knew that Adam would survive, opened his expressive blue eyes and returned the very sweet a smile that once captivated millions of hearts around the world.

The guitarist remembered how the ambulance workers burst into the apartment and in a second surrounded the singer from all sides, trying to stop the bleeding in every possible way. Every now and then, pictures of a medical car rushed through the deserted streets of night New York, trying to overtake death.

Tommy turned in the direction of the desired corridor again, and, seeing no change, walked past the door, nervously clutching a double espresso cardboard cup in his hands, but stopped when he heard a tired male voice:

"Mr. Ratliff?" The musician instantly turned towards the doctor and approached him with undisguised fear in his dark eyes. "Everything worked out, Thomas, your friend was very lucky."

"Thank God," he blond sighed with relief, brushing a long bangs from his forehead. "Can I go to him?"

"It doesn't make sense now," said Mr. Jones regretfully, "we introduced Adam into an artificial coma to give his body a chance to recover at least a little, I think," he opened the patient's card and quickly ran his eyes over the necessary lines, "tomorrow you can visit him, but for now it is better to go home and rest, you look very tired."

"Okay." He man looked at his wristwatch, the hands of which hit the seventh hour a few minutes ago. "Let me know if ..."

"Yes, we took your phone number for communication." He held out his hand to say goodbye. "See you, Mr. Ratliff."

***

Leaving the hospital, the blond walked slowly towards the main road to hail a taxi. He did not want to sleep at all, because the adrenaline was still making itself felt, and if you add to this the extreme degree of concern for an old friend, then he could not sit still either. He completely lacked the desire to return to his room in one of the expensive hotels in the city, and he would not go to his own concert, even more so, since the band members were already aware of what had happened, or rather the part where it was said about the hospital, the musician decided not to tell other details from - for ethical considerations and a banal unwillingness to share something personal with almost strangers.

When the world famous yellow car pulled up to the side of the road, Ratliff sat in the back passenger seat and gave the desired address, turning his head to the window. Experiences still tormented his soul, but not as much as it had ten minutes ago, and local beauties and ordinary townspeople rushing to work could calm anyone. Mentally, the guitarist was already planning something like a plan, further actions regarding Adam. He could not leave his former boss in such a terrible position, quit, like everyone else. Well, no, he must see it through to the end and bring his friend back to life.

Having paid for the trip, the blond got out of the car, opened the front door with the key that remained in his pocket, and went up to the required floor. The apartment greeted him with the smell of caked blood and dampness, which caused a heavy lump to instantly rolled up to his throat, and his knees began to shake slightly as Tommy remembered the events of the last hours. Taking a deep breath, the guitarist looked around the room, calculating the to-do list that Lambert had left for him without knowing it. Wipe the blood on the floor, clean the bathroom, throw out absolutely all the trash, including the remnants of alcohol and semi-finished products, at least bring the apartment into a divine form and buy a couple of essentials for the first time.

The man casually took off his spoiled coat, and along with the shirt, on which crimson bloodstains remained, and hung it on a hook near the front door. Then he pulled out his phone and turned on the songs of his favorite band Metallica to the maximum in order to abstract from the rest of the world and calm his nerves.

Long live the cleaning.

After rummaging through the drawers, the guitarist found several rather large bags, and the cleaning tools, predictably, were lying around in the farthest corner of the apartment, apparently as unnecessary. He took a deep breath, anticipating the impending fun, and got down to business. He thoroughly wiped the floor and walls of the bathroom and hallway, but he could not finally get rid of the terrible stains, mentally making a note to deal with this later, swept away all the garbage from all horizontal surfaces, and safely put it in black bags, tying it to tight knots, so, just in case, did a wet cleaning throughout the studio, opened the window wide open and removed the damaged curtains. Then the blond found in the only closet the bill payment notices, happily crumpled up in one large pile, and stuffed it into his pocket. He opened the refrigerator, seriously thinking that his friend could die not only from alcoholism, but also from an empty stomach, since it was not that empty, the refrigerator looked like it had not been looked in at all for over a year, which is not surprising in the case with Adam. Shaking his head, the guitarist opened the notes in his phone and made a gigantic list of necessary things and products now for the former chief, took the bags filled to the top and left the apartment, having previously closed the door behind him.

The man was already standing in the giant supermarket, throwing everything that caught his eye into the basket, from toothbrushes and toothpaste to a bundle of paper towels, knowing full well that neither one nor the other was in the house anymore. Taking all the necessities of life, he went to the food section, doing the same, trying to fill the refrigerator and kitchen cabinets with normal food.

The blonde tried to pick up exactly those products that Adam simply adored a few years ago, he remembered perfectly well that his friend did not eat meat, replacing it with tofu, or something else, threw a lot of fruits and vegetables into the basket without missing a pack of it your favorite coffee.

The musician madly missed the time when they could safely walk around Los Angeles in between performances, for jokes and jokes of not quite decent content, at their favorite cafe, where they prepared simply amazing espresso. The annoying paparazzi watched their every step, and the fans wondered if they were connected by something more than a simple male friendship. They often liked to stir up interest in their personas with too much hot kisses and unambiguous touches to the most interesting parts of the body. But that was only for the public, only during the Glam Nation Tour. The famous Fever turned the head of many not only with a provocative text, authored by Lady Gaga herself, but also with drive, frankness, flowing beyond the edges of any decency.

How he would like to return to a friend his thirst for life, again to plunge into that atmosphere of creativity and unrestrained fun. Become part of Glamile again.

***

The alarm clock rang right above the ear, announcing the beginning of a new day. The blonde jumped out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom to quickly tidy himself up and get busy. All night, he had terrible dreams with the participation of Adam, which he happily attributed to the stress and extreme fatigue he had experienced, and the nest on his head reminded him of this even more. Tommy fiddled with styling and makeup for about half an hour, even though many said that at that age it was time for him to forget about such a specific appearance, where he looked more like a Goth, he didn't care, so at seven in the morning he hurried out of hotel, ordered a large glass of coffee at the nearest Starbucks around the corner and hailed a taxi.

Today, the guitarist could finally visit Lambert in the hospital, and if he was lucky, he could take him home.

Already standing near the desired room, he was waiting for Dr. Jones to once again discuss the details without the participation of Adam himself. The doctor appeared just a couple of minutes later, holding a medical card and some papers. Apparently, these were the discharge documents.

“Good morning, Mr. Ratliff,” the dark-haired shook hands with the musician.

"Morning." He blond smiled at him in response. "Is there any news?"

"Yes." The doctor somehow vaguely replied, without looking into his eyes. "We are discharging your friend tomorrow."

"So this is great!" Tommy Joe could not contain his emotions.

"It's not so simple, he made a suicide attempt, so he will be transferred to the psychiatric ward for further rehabilitation."

"What? Is there any way to circumvent this procedure?" The guitarist asked in bewilderment, trying to find a solution to another problem related to an old friend. Well, no, he will not allow him to be hidden in a psychiatric hospital so simply, there, the blond is more than sure, the singer will withdraw into himself even more, which he definitely cannot allow.

"Unfortunately, no," Jones shrugged sympathetically, “these are the rules, Mr. Lambert should be assigned a personal psychologist to rule out further suicide attempts."

"Trust me, Adam needs friends and family, and not a locked room with bars on the windows, this will only hurt him more. I can personally hire the right specialist if needed. Only, please, do not send him there," the musician came close to the doctor and made the most pitiful face, as Lambert once taught him during the Glam Nation Tour, hoping that the man would understand their situation.

"Then ..." The brunette glanced at the patient's card. "I will appoint sessions with a psychologist at home, but all responsibility will lie with you."

"Yes, of course." Tommy Joe's joy knew no bounds, he firmly shook the doctor's hand and sincerely smiled at him. "Can I go to him now?"

"Of course." Dr. Jones went to the white door and opened it slightly, letting the musician go ahead, just do not sit too long.

The blonde slowly, even a little afraid, entered a medium-sized room with pale green walls and two large windows, in which the morning sun and a light fog could be seen. The interior items themselves were also made in light, almost white colors. In the center of the room was a bed with a wooden bedside table and a lone visitor chair. Adam, on the other hand, lay motionless on the bed and looked at the ceiling, as if some picture was depicted there, requiring careful consideration of all its details.

"Hi," said the guitarist strangled, taking a few steps forward, but the reaction of the red-haired did not follow. "How are you feeling?"

He had already sat down on a chair when he said rather abruptly and, at the same time, absently:

"What do you think?" The man defiantly moved his hands, at the same second a metallic sound was heard in the room - special belts were fixed on his wrists, a system for attaching especially violent patients, and the forearms themselves were wrapped in white bandages, on which two long bloody stripes could be seen with the naked eye.

"These are just precautions so that you can no longer harm yourself." The musician informed his friend in a soothing tone, to which he grunted in irritation and rolled his eyes. "Can you still answer the question?"

"Fine for someone who was returned from the other world. One question: why?" The singer pointedly raised his perfect eyebrow, slightly turning his head towards the interlocutor.

"I didn't want you to die. Who solves problems this way ?!" Tommy broke into a scream, anger at his friend outweighed the rest of his feelings, he was outraged by his act, and even more blamed himself for it because he knew perfectly well that he simply had to guess earlier about his plans, to prevent him from committing suicide, but instead, ignored the alarm bells, thinking that Adam himself is able to figure out the situation.

"Me," said the man coldly. "How did you even find me? I thought you should have already left for the hotel."

"It was, but I forgot the car keys in your apartment, and I had to go back. Lord, what if I came even a minute later? You should have been feeding the worms in the cemetery!"

Adam returned his gaze to the ceiling and furrowed his brows in thought. The echo from the musician's last remark was still walking around the room, further adding to the already gloomy atmosphere. Ratliff nervously tapped his toes, trying to come up with, return their dialogue to a peaceful course.

"Thank you." The man suddenly whispered softly, slightly clenching his fingers into fists, but immediately winced from severe pain in his forearms.

"You are my owe." Th e blond joked gently, to which the singer immediately found an answer.

"Assuredly." The man said loudly, picking up the laughter of a friend. "By the way, when are you leaving?"

"I stay here." The guitarist answered in a serious voice, looking him straight in the eyes. "You don't think that you can get rid of me so easily."

"What about your new group?" Lowered his voice a couple of tones Lambert.

"I resigned of my own free will, for personal reasons, to be more precise." A victorious smile settled on the musician's lips when he heard approaching footsteps and the creak of door hinges.

"Mr. Lambert, I have good news for you." The doctor who entered with a positive attitude began. " You can return home this Friday."


End file.
